


Foul Weather

by entanglednow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-30
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's timing is too good to be chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foul Weather

Sherlock's timing is too good to be chance. John's barely through the door, still within view of anyone who happens to be walking past, still within view of the very nice woman he'd just taken on a very nice date.

The kiss is precise, the angle and pressure perfect. John's half turned around, coat slid down over one shoulder when he hit the wall, and there's no way he can push Sherlock away without ending up on the floor. John knows exactly what Sherlock's doing, for once. In fact he's not sure it's ever been so transparent. This is in no way a spontaneous development. This is something he's planned, calmly and meticulously.

And then it stops, leaving John's mouth cold and numb...and angry.

Sherlock watches him fume with something like satisfaction. "Isn't this the part where you push me away and stride off in a fury of wounded pride and indignation."

"I should do," John says stiffly, because he can't remember the last time he was this angry. "I should do exactly that."

The very fact that Sherlock expects him to, seems to want him to, stops him. Instead he simply shrugs out of Sherlock's grip. Sherlock doesn’t try and hold on to him, he lets him slide free, hands falling away.

John kicks the front door shut, shoves his hands into his pockets, clenches them tight and struggles to keep his voice level.

"Is it just my time? Is that all you begrudge. The idea of me spending my time somewhere else instead of here, paying attention to someone else instead of playing an audience for you? Because if this is some sort of selfish manipulation for my attention then I'm not going to stand for it." His voice sounds more layered with hurt than the flat disappointment he was going for. "I mean it, Sherlock, I'm not going to put up with that."

Sherlock's jaw clenches, and John can't help but feel that he's holding himself back from speaking. Like he knows that whatever he was going to say is _wrong_. That it would only make it worse. It's a restraint that doesn't look right on him.

"Sherlock?"

There's a sigh, it's loud and annoyed and John thinks it's there to cover whatever Sherlock would have snapped out immediately in response.

"And if it isn't?"

John glares at him and tries to read something, anything in his face. But Sherlock is suddenly infuriatingly unreadable.

"Then you might be more human than I thought." John's voice doesn't sound angry, it should, he still is angry but it's leeching out of him the longer he looks at Sherlock. He's still all angles and sharpness. But there's something frustrated about the movement of his hands and the angry little twitches of his head. As if John is refusing to understand something obvious.

"Being human - god - that's such a tiresome expression. Broad enough to have almost no meaning at all, and wheeled out constantly to excuse a multitude of sins." It's a complaint, rushed and without context. A tangent Sherlock threatens to slide into.

John shakes his head because arguing with Sherlock has always been this maddening. Everything swept aside as unimportant, unless Sherlock decides it isn't. But John refuses to let go of this one, _refuses._

"Do you just need an audience, or do you need me?" he snaps. John's honestly curious. Sherlock's so good at using people, at making them fit their purpose. Yesterday he would have said he meant more than most, that he and Sherlock were friends. But maybe he's wrong, maybe this thing is more fluid, maybe he just doesn't know what his purpose is. He doesn't know what Sherlock _needs_ him for yet. Sherlock isn't giving any clue, there's just that bland indifference on his face that John's far too familiar with. The inability to see anything of importance here. The faint confusion as to how this in any way _matters_.

John shakes his head, once, and shoves Sherlock out of the way, he pulls his coat back up his shoulders where it'd fallen down during Sherlock's aggressive display of possessiveness, fully intending to go out again. He doesn’t care where, doesn’t care for how long.

But before he can take a single step there are fingers in his arm, dug all the way in like he might try and drag himself free, he shakes at them and Sherlock simply digs them in tighter, before crowding him back against the wall until his coat falls again.

"Fine," Sherlock hisses, fingers twitching and relaxing on John's arm in a way that's going to leave bruises. "Fine, it's you, just you. I need you to stay, I need you to stay so I can _think_. You're not an audience, you're not an experiment, you're part of this, part of all of this and you're _mine._ " There's a slow clench of teeth, Sherlock's never been able to resist the quick, brittle honesty that colours everything he says.

If anything that should make John angrier.

But instead he exhales like Sherlock has finally given him something he can understand, something real.

"In the future, just tell me you want me around and I'll stay. You don't have to play games, you don't have to manipulate me, or scheme or generally act like a bloody supervillain."

Sherlock frowns at the comparison but John thinks it's more than fair.

"I'm not going anywhere, you don't have to do this, any of this. It isn't necessary. You don't have to fake anything, or pretend, or...." John runs out of words, not sure what he's trying to say. What he's trying to accuse Sherlock of, or excuse him from.

Anyone else would look away, anyone else would be ashamed. Sherlock just keeps looking at him, like John still doesn't understand, like he's being stupid on purpose.

"Sometimes people just stay you know." John sounds more disappointed than anything else now.

"Not with me." The words are tight, reluctant.

"You should trust me," John says quietly.

Sherlock expression says instantly that he thinks John's said something _stupid_. John moves to twist out of his grip again - and Sherlock's hand stops him, one pull that's a flicker of imperfect desperation. Until John sighs and settles back against the wall.

"I need you," Sherlock says. It's quiet, breathed out like's he's admitted to something he's half ashamed of.

"Tell me you were jealous." John's not sure where it comes from, but he knows by the way Sherlock's fingers tighten, by the way he scowls at the word, that it's far, far too close to the truth. And just like that there's a danger that he has as much out in the open as Sherlock does.

The silence drags on.

John puts his hand on Sherlock's wrist, goes to push him free.

"Yes," Sherlock says stiffly.

John looks at him, hand still half curled round Sherlock's arm. He waits, breath held, but there's nothing else. He thinks that's the best he's going to get.

"You're fantastically good at deducing everyone but yourself, aren't you?"

Sherlock's rough exhale sounds like an accusation and then he's far too close, pressing forward a step until John's shoulders hit the wall again. Too tall and then heavy when he shifts his weight, gloved hand warm on the side of John's neck.

It's not a kiss that's for show this time, this one is something angry and frustrated. There's no train of thought to follow, no precision. Something about it almost feels helpless. Sherlock doesn't stop, he takes like he wants _everything_ , takes until John's mouth hurts, all teeth and aggression and selfishness. It's brutal and it's real and it's so very _Sherlock._

It comes to a messy stop, until they're just breathing into each other's mouth, Sherlock leaning over him, forehead pressed into his own.

"It doesn't mean you're broken," John says quietly, against the strange, new familiarity of Sherlock's mouth.

He gets a huff of irritated amusement. But he thinks that Sherlock relaxes, just fractionally, under the words.


End file.
